


Creatures of the Underworld

by KokoBean



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward dad figure Gabriel, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, DAMMIT JESSE, Kids in a gang, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, Young Heartbreak, Young Love, let my son be happy, too many fuckin metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:16:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7653520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KokoBean/pseuds/KokoBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Learning the hard way that good things don't last also means realizing that, more often than not, even genuinely good people don't get happily ever after. Where does that leave an outlaw? Plum out of luck, that's what.<br/>Kiss your dreams goodbye, kid, you don't deserve them.</p><p>The sun set in Jesse McCree's life a long time ago, and he's accepted living in the dark. When the sun dawns for him again, in the form of one Hanzo Shimada, it's hard to believe it's the real deal and not a mirage. Old habits- and old nightmares -die hard, but if there's anything the Shimada heir is, it's stubborn.<br/>Why face the night alone when you can embrace the dawn with someone at your side?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creatures of the Underworld

**Author's Note:**

> I really, REALLY, wanted to write something sweet and sappy and loving, because god knows these boys need it, but my brain insisted that there had to be a sad set-up chapter. DAMMIT  
> Translations for Spanish words are at the bottom! My Spanish is pretty rusty, feel free to correct me!
> 
> Part one to a two part deal; chapter 2 will be all McHanzo and all gross. Stubborn old men that just need to be loved. But first, we need to get through the ups and downs of young love and how it can wound you for years.  
> SUPER DUPER, ON WITH THE SHOW

When Jesse McCree was still a pup, his Ma did her best to instill that, above all else, he was always loved. That even though his younger sisters did better in the bronco competitions, and he forgot to muck out the stalls more often than not, he would always be her baby. Her eldest son. Her pride and joy. 

When he accidentally shot out one of the kitchen windows with his pa's shotgun, she'd been madder than a wet cat and chased him 'round the ranch with a soup ladle until he promised to replace it himself.  
  
“Jesse James McCree!” she'd yelled, landing a solid 'thwack!' on his shoulder, “Ya'll're lucky I love ya so damned much or I'd put ya out with the hounds!”  
  
He couldn't remember his Pa ever laughing so hard, and that alone made it worth it.  
  
He'd been fifteen when his Pa died- a machinery accident out in the fields, he'd heard his sister's screams from the barn -and he watched the light go out of his Ma.  
She no longer spent days elbow deep in the garden, planting vegetables and flowers and coming inside smelling of sunshine and the desert breeze. She sold the horses just to keep the house. Jesse worked odd jobs to help support them all, his three sisters and his poor Ma, but it was sporadic at best, and they were struggling.  
  
One day, she called him to her, sitting at the creaky kitchen table and turning one of his Pa's old kerchiefs over and over in her worn hands. He can still remember the way the evening sun cast shadows over her face, down the creases that sorrow had carved where laugh lines should be. 

“Baby,” she starts, her voice frail as a moth's wings, “You're such a good boy. So much like your Pa, I see him in you more and more every day.” 

Her smile is small and distant and breaks his heart. As he sits next to her, he notices she's picking mindlessly at a loose thread on the kerchief and reaches out to lay his hand over hers to still it. Her sigh is slow and drawn out, like a breath held too long.  
  
“I hope you find someone that'll love you like that, like the sun rises and sets in your eyes.”

He tries to not make a face at the sappiness of the statement, but evidently fails when his Ma's smile tweaks a little higher.

“Trust me, sugar, you'll know when you meet them. And never let anyone tell you that you aren't worth that love, because you deserve every bit of it.”

She'd turned her hand over to hold on to his in turn, the kerchief between them like a promise. When he leans in to hug her, he ignores the way the empty kitchen seems to yawn around them, void of the life it once had, and only holds her tighter.  
  
The next day, he goes out for a new job, and comes back with a gang tattoo on his left shoulder.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jesse McCree is a cocksure brat, five months shy of seventeen and a damn good shot with a gun. Too silver-tongued for his own good most days, but it comes in handy when the boss asks where he squirrels away his money from deals done right. He don't need to know it all goes back to his Ma, bless her. It always ends with a clap on the back and a laugh from the boss and that's all that matters.  
  
He tries not to think too hard about her, about how disappointed she must be. Some pride and joy he is now, his pa's prized gun on his hip and blood on his hands.  
  
He's been with the Deadlock gang for a year when his Ma's words from that night in the kitchen come back to him, one too-bright day on the mesa with warm tequila and bad cigarettes.  
  
He and a few of the other members are having some fun with the newbies, taking pot shots at roadrunners and lizards and ribbing each other for misses. It'd be friendly if there wasn't a fine undercurrent of threat, of what would happen if these newbies really aren't all that good with a gun.  
  
There's only three new ones this time; a whipcord of a woman just barely in her twenties, full of piss and vinegar with a face to match, and two lean muscled Latino boys about his age, brothers he guessed from how similar they looked, throwing insults around in Spanish that they thought he couldn't understand. He wouldn't bother to learn any of their names in case they ended up dead in the gorge.  
One of the boys is slightly bigger, power hinted at in how broad his shoulders are already, but he's timid in a way. Shy around the tequila like he's never seen it before, and Jesse hadn't missed the way the boy had jumped at the first few gunshots, the way he wasn't prepared for the recoil. Jesse didn't have high hopes for him.  
  
After watching the kid take a hesitant shot at a cactus and missing it by a mile, Jesse turns his head away with an eye roll and a drag of his cig. Evidently the other brother catches it, as he's now facing Jesse in full and scowling. _'Like a touchy rattler'_ , Jesse thinks, his mouth quirked in a smirk around his smoke.  
  
“Got a problem over there, _pendejo_?” the brother snaps, to the horror of his meeker sibling who spins around and reaches out abortively. “Think you're better than Antonio, ay?”

The larger brother- _Antonio-_ glances around and seems to shrink under the looks of the members who've taken interest, always itching for a fight. His brother ignores them entirely, staring Jesse down.  
  
“'Course I'm better than 'im, esé. That sack of potatoes couldn't find his ass in th' damn dark.” Jesse sneers, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette and spitting in the dirt as if he's disgusted by the whole thing.  
In the second he took his eyes off them, he hears someone, likely Antonio, yell, “Julian, don't!”, right before the kid is in his face, shockingly fast, bristling with rage. Jesse doesn't have time to put an arm up before a fist connects solidly with his jaw, landing him flat on his back and overturning a bottle of tequila.  
There are people yelling, there's booze in his shirt and blood on his lip, and when he looks up, there's that damn kid, staring down at him with hellfire in his molten chocolate eyes.  
  
And just then, Jesse thinks that Julian is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life.  
__  
“Trust me, sugar, you'll know when you meet them.”  
  


* * *

__  
  
A little over half a year together, and Jesse McCree is convinced he's going to spend his life with Julian.  
The gangbanger has a quit wit, a quicker temper, and a mean left hook. He's made of campfire and dust devils and the cicadas on long nights. He challenges Jesse at every step, and gives back just as hard.  
He tastes like ash and tamales, smells like sweat and gunpowder and rosemary, of all damn things, and when Jesse fucks him, fast and rough in the rented room above a filthy bar, Julian feels like home.  
  
Julian teaches him songs in Spanish, accompanied by the low thrums of a guitar and sloppy kisses between shots of stolen Patrón. In return, Jesse teaches Julian how to ride a horse, reveling in the sweet smile of awe when Julian finally gets the hang of the mare's gait.  
  
Jesse wants to love this boy under the desert stars till the end of his days. Leave the gang, maybe start a ranch of their own. Horses and some sheep, sweet tea on hot nights and kisses over pancakes in the morning.  
He wants to bring Julian home, wants him to meet his Ma.

Of course, he should have known that people like them weren't allowed to have things as luxurious as stability, as hope. As love.

Dreams of horse ranches and Julian in white come crashing down the day Overwatch catches them.  
  
The sting is fast and brutal, embarrassingly easy. Jesse would be sure his boss is shitting himself in fury, if he wasn't so busy bolting through the dusty streets and dodging gunfire. He'd been separated from Julian when everything went to hell, a cacophony of yelling, demands of ' _Get down! On the ground, hands where I can see them!',_ and the choir of too many safeties clicking off to argue with.  
There's too many agents here, there's no way the gang is getting out of this one, and the only thing on Jesse's mind is finding Julian in the madness. If they're going to jail, they're going together.  
  
He suddenly, viciously, regrets not kissing Julian before leaving on the operation. It was supposed to be easy.  
  
Jesse ducks and weaves through the firefight, bullets clipping by him too close for comfort. To his left, a fellow member throws an agent through a diner window before getting a black bag thrown over his head by an agent that had flanked him. The member goes down hard, and Jesse doesn't stick around to be next.

He's just skidded around a corner, desperation burning in his lungs, when he finally sees the back of Julian's jacket. The gang sign emblazoned there seems to mock him as he runs, finally getting enough air to yell to his inamorato.  
Julian's head whips around, that beloved fire in his chocolate eyes blazing and the grip on his gun white-knuckled, and Jesse only has a moment to realize something is wrong when Julian's face abruptly twists in horror.  
  
“ _Jesse!_ ”  
  
The scream rings in his ears as he's tackled, brutally, from the side. The agent that's downed him is so much larger, bulky with armor and war hardened muscle, but Jesse fights back like a coyote in a snare. They tumble over the dirt, grappling for a moment before the agent manages to flip Jesse and slam him to the ground on his stomach. He shouts hoarsely, the wind knocked out of him, and bucks when the agent wrestles his arms behind his back, feels the zip ties cinch closed around his wrists.  
The agent is yelling at him, but Jesse refuses to listen, scraping his face through the dust to try and catch sight of Julian. It's both relieving and terrifying to see Julian still standing there, stock still, the eye of this horrific storm. And Jesse knows, in awful clarity, he can't bear to see this beautiful creature trapped behind bars.  
  
Jesse screams at him to run, _run you pendejo,_ and slams his head back into the agent's to distract them from Julian. Julian looks panicked, an expression Jesse has never seen on him before and never wants to again.  
Julian shuffles back a step, his grip on his gun loose now, more skittish colt than proud stallion.

Jesse kicks out wildly, getting a knee in his spine for the effort, and yells again, “ _Run!_ ”  
  
A lead weight settles in his stomach when he sees the resignation, the pain in his heart far worse than anything this agent can do to him when he sees Julian mouth ' _te amo_ '.  
  
The last thing Jesse McCree sees before a black bag blocks out everything is Julian turning and running like the devil is on his tail. He wouldn't be wrong.  
  
_Te amo_.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Three car rides and plenty of manhandling later, the black bag comes off and Jesse is immediately blinded by fluorescent lights. He's crudely tied to a chair, the zip ties still digging into his wrists. He wonders if he's bleeding yet.  
The first thing he sees, squinting through the glare of the light, are two Overwatch agents, marked by the insignia on their chests. One of them has an extra insignia he doesn't recognize, and the man wearing it immediately puts Jesse on edge. He's heavy with muscle, a stillness to his parade rest that's unnerving. His face is scarred and set in a scowl, and the eyes staring him down are as sharp as any hawk's. Jesse holds his stare despite the unease crawling down his back, and only looks away when the other agent approaches him.

 _This must be the one that got me,_ Jesse thinks, noticing the black eye the agent is sporting, _I got him good._  
Jesse smirks, and the agent sneers. He, predictably, asks about the gang, his role in it, who's important. Jesse responds by spitting in his face.

The agent hisses in disgusted outrage and steps forward, and Jesse braces for the backhand that doesn't come. The other agent, the Latino built like a brick shit house, has grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Words are exchanged, and Black Eye leaves in a huff.  
  
Jesse cocks his head, stares at the mystery insignia with wary curiosity, fearlessly making eye contact when the strange agent turns to him again.  
  
“Alright, cabrón, let's talk.”  
  


* * *

  
  
They didn't torture him, as he'd thought. They also didn't throw him in jail, which was, frankly, disturbing.  
  
Overwatch had taken an interest in him, the little shit from New Mexico, because apparently his reputation had preceded him. _Damn fine shot, but a fucking idiot,_ the agent had said, who he now knew was Gabriel Reyes.  
  
Gabriel had given him a choice; either rot in a maximum security jail cell, or join his organization, Blackwatch. Jesse had heard stories about Blackwatch, but he never thought they were real. Ghost stories, bullshit old gang members made up because they were bored.  
Looking at Gabriel, at the unflinching set of his jaw and the cold calculation in his eyes, Jesse now knew those stories had roots. Had teeth.

He thinks of cicadas, of bad tequila and the smell of rosemary, and pulls his mouth into the most sickening grin he can. The one folks get before there's a bullet between their eyes.

“Where do I sign, partner?”  
  
Gabriel doesn't smile back.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jesse McCree is damn good at what he does and he knows it, even when Reyes kicks his ass for being a reckless puto. Jesse will snap back at him in Spanish, and it only spurs Reyes on until they're bickering in the quickfire language like old friends.  
Jesse tries valiantly to ignore the warmth that comes with Reyes' rare approving smirks; he isn't doing this for Reyes, and that thought finally bears fruit when missions take him back to Sante Fe after several months, slipping away from fellow agents to take a spot in a dark and dingy bar in casual clothes. The others can handle the recon mission they came for originally; he's _here_ for a reason.  
  
And when that reason walks through the door with molten chocolate eyes and subdued fire, Jesse thanks a God he stopped believing in a long time ago.  
  
Julian almost chokes him with the strength of his hug, burying his face in Jesse's neck and gasping out laughs that could be sobs. In turn, Jesse tangles his hands in Julian's short hair and just _breathes,_ rocking them where they're squished in one chair, taking in the scent of cigarettes and home.  
  


“You're an _asshole,_ Jesse McCree.”  
“I missed ya too, cariño.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Things go off without a hitch, Jesse successfully slipping away from missions time and time again to rendezvous with Julian.  
  
Julian had left the gang after the sting, laid low with some extended family. Deadlock is in shambles, but is rebuilding from the ashes. Jesse doesn't want to talk about the gang, think about what he almost lost, so he makes sure their visits are filled with as little talk as possible. Only feverish kisses and desperate hands, new stubble catching on sensitive skin and sweat slicked bodies moving together clumsily, beautifully.  
When time allowed them to enjoy the afterglow, Jesse would murmur promises of leaving Blackwatch, of telling Reyes where to shove it and leaving to run off with Julian, because Julian thought the sun rose and set in his eyes and Jesse refused to let that love go.

Like many young adults, they were naïve in love.  
And with what Jesse was tangled in, something bigger and stronger and more dangerous than he knew, these sweet interludes weren't meant to last.  
  


* * *

  
  
When Reyes called him to his office, a cold knot of dread had settled in Jesse's stomach. He was only ever called in here when he'd _really_ fucked up, and it seemed now was no exception. On Reyes' desk was a single neat manila folder, his commander's gaze sharp in a way he'd only very rarely seen it.  
  
“Sit down, McCree.”  
  
Jesse clenched his jaw, and sat.  
  
“You wanna tell me what the fuck you've been up to the last month?” Reyes' growled, one huge hand opening the folder to show the papers inside. Transcripts.  
The knot tightened, feeling less like ice in his stomach and more like a noose around his neck.  
  
“I don' rightly know what yer talkin' 'bout.” Jesse gritted out, folding his arms over his chest. Reyes narrowed his eyes at him, and looked somehow... Disappointed, right before he went into a deeper scowl of anger.  
  
“Julian Mendez, cabrón, you gonna tell me about that? Do you think I'm a fucking idiot, McCree?” Reyes snapped, spreading the transcripts out with one large hand. An entire month of stilted conversations, of promises and vows.  
Jesse's heart seized for an alarming moment before he clenched his jaw and straightened his back, staring Reyes straight in the eyes despite the chokehold of the noose.  
  
“He's none of yer damn business.”  
  
Reyes actually _snarled_ at him, standing and leaning over the desk to get in his face.

“He's _my_ business because _you're_ my business, and my agents only leave this operation in a _casket_ , McCree,” Jesse tries not to flinch, fails, “Did you know his brother is still with Deadlock? That his brother _knows_ you're here? They think you're a traitor, McCree. You're a liability because of this damned chulo.”  
  
Jesse looks away, feeling like he did when he was a kid getting dressed down by his Pa. Reyes makes a noise like an angry bull.  
  
“This is fucking bullshit. Can't believe I have to babysit you, goddamn.” Jesse tightens his arms over his chest, waiting for the shoe to drop, and when it does, it winds him.

“This has to end, McCree.”  
  
Jesse whips his head around, barely keeping his jaw from dropping.  
“Wh-”  
“I mean it, cabrón. End it, or I will. We don't have room for that shit in this _line of work._ ” Reyes spits, sneering, and Jesse wants to break his teeth.  
“We're creatures of the underworld; we can't afford to love.”  
  
And Jesse, full of hellfire and never knowing when to quit, jumps to his feet so fast his chair overturns with a bang. He shoves right up into Reyes' face, terrified anger licking at his throat and a hole tearing open in his heart.  
  
“Well that ain't never stopped you 'n _Morrison_ now did it?” he hisses, deadly as a rattler, and his pulse jumps with adrenalin when Reyes' expression morphs into the most terrifying mask of _rage_ he's seen on his commander.  
Reyes bares his teeth, making an inarticulate noise of fury, and swipes the transcripts to the floor, slamming his hand on the desk.  
  
“Get the _fuck_ out of my office, McCree! _Get the fuck out_ before I take you to Ziegler in _pieces!_ ” his voice is a thunderstorm, danger in every nuance, and Jesse remembers just how many kills this man has on his record.

He turns and leaves, kicking the door shut with a slam for good measure, hands shaking and anger simmering under the surface of his skin until he wants to vibrate out of his body with it.  
  
He spent hours in the gym that night, focusing on the rage and beating bags till his knuckles were bloody, because that was easier than thinking about telling Julian they were over, that they would never see each other again.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jesse never gets the chance to talk to Julian.  
  


* * *

  
  
When Jesse McCree, barely eighteen and already feeling the weight of the world, is called back to Gabriel Reyes' office hardly a week later, he thinks nothing of it. He's already in deep shit, what else could his commander possibly be pissed about?  
But this summons, he'll find, is far worse than being shouted at.  
Jesse opens the door to an ominous silence, Gabriel leaning against the front of his desk instead of sitting behind it, a slump to his posture that makes Jesse immediately wary.  
  
“Sit down, McCree.” Gabriel says, not looking at him. Jesse scowls sourly and tries to bore holes in his commander's back with his stare.  
  
“Think'n I'd rather stand, thanks.” he grumbles peevishly, tapping the toe of his boot on the floor in a restless tic.  
Gabriel growls lowly and starts, “Goddammit cabrón, sit-” before he cuts himself off with a world weary sigh, running a hand down his face before finally turning to face Jesse. There's a small box on the desk behind him that seems out of place, devious in its innocence.  
  
“Jesse, you're going to want to sit down.”

This is what finally makes Jesse sit, slowly, something clenching tightly in his chest at the way his commander's looking at him- like he's a horse that's gone lame and needs to be put to sleep.  
  
Gabriel works his jaw for a moment, his face pinched like he can't find the words, sighing again and shaking his head.  
  
“Deadlock found Julian, kid.”  
  
Jesse's world slams to a sudden, jarring stop, the thing in his chest twisting tighter. He can feel cold sweat spring up on his back, a shiver of dread settling in his bones. He used to hate when Gabriel called him 'kid'.  
  
“To them, you're both traitors, but you're the worst of the two. You're blacklisted, want you to know that they've upped the bounty on your head. They had to make an example of someone.”  
  
Jesse suddenly doesn't want to hear the rest, dread and denial wrapping around his heart. He knows how this story goes, has seen it himself plenty of times- Deadlock doesn't take kindly to turncoats. If he listens closely, he can hear Julian's voice calling him an idiot over the sound of his heart fracturing.  
Gabriel taps his fingers on the desk, his mouth flattening, before he grabs the box and takes a step towards Jesse to hold it out. Jesse looks at it like it's a tarantula, like one of the big mean ones he and Julian would feed crickets to. Julian. _Julian._  
  
He takes the box with shaking hands, his breath coming fast and his heart beating faster. Gabriel is silent, his hovering mass vaguely reassuring instead of threatening.  
Jesse opens it slowly and very nearly slams it shut again, words of denial stuck in his throat and sour on his tongue. Resting at the bottom is a ring, simple in design with its thick band of hand wrought silver, the turquoise stones set into it gleaming dully. It'd cost Jesse a pretty penny, and he'd given it to Julian the second time they met up.  
  
_So y'know I mean it when I say I'm leavin' it all behind for you. That I'm serious 'bout this, 'bout us._ He'd said, a proposal in not the right words, but Julian had said yes all the same, enthusiastically. Jesse would later tease him for crying.  
  
Jesse's face crumples, not wanting to touch the ring because that'll make this all too real, even when he can already feel his heart breaking.  
Deadlock sends personal effects to make a point, to drive home that whoever possessed it before is dead in the desert somewhere, now.  
  
He curls over the box with a high, keening sound, burying his face in his knees and wishing the world would swallow him whole. He doesn't flinch when Gabriel's hand comes to rest tentatively, awkwardly, on his shoulder, and instead lists to the side to lean into his commander's legs. A gasping sob claws its way out of his throat, harsh on his ears but worse on his heart, and holds the box closer to his chest when he feels Gabriel's hand move to the nape of his neck. Soothing, grounding.  
  
“Te tengo, chico. Te tengo.” Gabriel's voice is low, a pleasant rumble in his mother tongue, and it's what makes Jesse finally crack, twisting to bury his face in his commander's stomach and howl like a wounded animal.  
  
He'll be embarrassed about the display later, deaf to everything except the occasional murmur of Spanish and feeling every bit like the teenager he still, technically, is. The only thing, he thinks, that keeps him clawing from his own heart out and falling to pieces there on the office floor, is Gabriel's hand on his neck, fingers tangled in his hair.  
  
Jesse McCree has never cried harder in his life.  
  
What else can you do, when the light in your world, the sun that rises and sets in your heart, goes out.  
  


* * *

  
_Pendejo - slang for idiot_  
_Esé - who you're referring to; is very rude when used in this context_  
_Cabrón - dumbass/asshole_  
_Cariño - common petname, similar to darling/sweetie/dear_  
_Te tengo, chico - I have you, kid_  
_Te amo - I love you_  
  


 


End file.
